


cyrano

by deadlybride



Series: fic for fire relief [5]
Category: Supernatural RPF, The Boys (TV 2019) RPF
Genre: Consensual Infidelity, Dom/sub, Established Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki, M/M, Rough Sex, San Diego Comic-Con, mild AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:48:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26508487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Antony's excited to meet the new guest star. If the rumors are true, next season could be extremely interesting.
Relationships: Jensen Ackles/Antony Starr, Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki
Series: fic for fire relief [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1926739
Comments: 29
Kudos: 61





	cyrano

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scgemini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scgemini/gifts).



> This fic was written for wildfire relief. Personalized fics are available on request; see [this post on my tumblr](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/629171809812643840/fic-for-fire-relief) for more info.

It's a fun panel. Comic Con panels are always fun. Antony plays up his accent because it seems to make the American audience laugh harder, when he makes a joke, and when he swaps into his tense tilted Ohio vowels for the Homelander accent they just get stoked higher, cheering, whooping. Eric's grinning, loving it, and Urban sits back like a king, soaking it in. He's gotten to enjoy this sort of thing for years, with the Rings franchise. Antony's career has been steady, and he's been lucky enough, but before The Boys—yeah, he never had anything like this.

But—speaking of kings—

"Now, San Diego," Eric says, hamming it up at the podium. Swell of applause. Audiences always like to hear their own name. Antony grins out at them, knowing what's coming. "The Vaught Corporation is happy to present—the first superhero—" and screaming, then, from the women in the audience—"our favorite first son—no offense, Antony." He waves a hand, magnanimous. "Ladies and gentlemen, as Soldier Boy, please welcome—Jensen Ackles!"

Antony's been at football matches where proper heroes were announced, at concerts when Bono runs up onto the stage and the audience screams to their feet. He hasn't before been hit by the wall of sound that erupts from Hall H when Jensen fuckin' Ackles walks out onto the stage, in blue jeans and a dark burgundy blazer, his hair longer than it was the last time Antony saw a picture of him, his confidence easy and movie-star perfect, even if he's a TV actor from the slummier end of sci-fi.

Eric leaves the podium, fully hugs Jensen in front of the screaming women of the hall. They're close, Antony knows, from all those years before on Supernatural. Jensen claps the side of Eric's neck, smiling warm and real, and slings an arm around his shoulder to wave at the crowd, prompting another bout of wailing. Urban laughs, quiet enough that it can't actually be heard over the noise, and leans a little toward Antony's ear, covering the mic so he won't be recorded. "You think they think he's Jesus?" Urban says, a tiny bit mocking but still easy, knowing his primacy. Real nerd king, here. Antony shakes his head, kicking his feet out under the table, watching Jensen wave one last time before accepting a handheld mic. There's a little in-character banter scheduled, a few quick questions and answers. Eric Kripke's golden goose, laying one last egg for harvest. Antony watches the edge of his cheekbone, his movie-star jaw. The smile, perfect balance between confidence and self-effacing. Americans, he thinks again, laughing a little at the absurdity of the situation—where he is, what's happening. All this excitement, over a cape.

*

Too much, later. Autographs, photographs. Brief press junket. The job. He's paired with Erin for the hour of samey question-answer, repeating the same on-set jokes, retelling the story of that prank with Starlight's boots, full of Jell-O. It's easy, the reporters professional, the enthusiasm easy to keep up. Erin rolls her eyes at him, during a pause to touch up her mascara, and he laughs, the good day filling him up.

The cast meets for dinner, later, in a proper restaurant a long way from the bustle of the convention center. Eric's hosting and they have a private room, five waiters, the wine flowing. "Thanks so much, guys," Eric says, toasting from the head of the table, and—Antony's at his right hand, and Jensen Ackles is at his left, leaning back, smiling. Still handsome, still in that burgundy jacket that makes his skin look like dark gold. July and he's tinted with summer. Freckles standing out. Antony didn't realize he had them.

At the head of the table, Eric and Jensen talk about their kids, about old memories. They include Antony in them, Eric slightly awkwardly—he really is a nerd—and Jensen with almost-courtly ease. Anecdotes, about conventions past, about their old days when the CW was still the WB, about arguing with the censors that this or that wasn't _really_ a problem. "Bet you would've killed, if SPN could've been on Amazon back then, huh?" Jensen says. He pronounces it _spin_. "Or, whatever, HBO? All the beheadings you could ever ask for."

"Ghosts and gore," Eric says, almost wistful, and Antony can't help but laugh, even if he's barely included in this conversation. Eric shrugs, caught out, and then points at Jensen with his fork. "Count yourself lucky, Jen. If we'd been in primetime, you'd've had about thirty more sex scenes."

Jensen raises his hands. "One was enough," he says, eyes crinkled at the corners, and he glances at Antony as he says it. Jen, Antony thinks, and in the bathroom he opens up his phone and googles something, and then opens up Netflix to Supernatural, season one episode thirteen, and watches Jensen Ackles stripped to the waist, rolling a beautiful black girl into bed, his hands careful on her skin. Antony's seen random episodes—enough to pretend to the press that he was a fan, excited when Jensen Ackles was stunt-cast on the show he leads—but he hasn't seen this, before. Hasn't seen Jensen's body, before.

Cars take them back to the hotel. Antony rides with Jensen, not by accident. Jensen tips the driver, casual and friendly, and when they're standing in the cool beautiful lobby Antony shrugs at him, tips his head at the elevator. "Come up? Amazon's covering the room service bill. I think Bezos can afford it."

Jensen snorts. "Probably can," he says, and follows Antony—to the fourteenth floor, to the pseudo-suite they gave him. He wonders if Amazon's money spends more lushly than the CW's used to. It's a perfectly fine room. King bed, beyond the open double-doors. Little sitting area, with a large television and a couch and a bar, and he pours himself a gin and tonic and then gestures, and Jensen sits, on the couch, and says, "Rum and coke?" and Antony pours it for him, and brings it, and watches Jensen sip it.

"Hall H as friendly as you remember it?" he says. He's standing close, and Jensen looks up at him, sunk back into the couch.

"Pretty much," Jensen says. "A lot more men, in your audience."

Antony laughs. Jensen smiles, looks along his shoulder to the open window, where San Diego lights wink, a sort-of skyline.

"Sorry you won't be permanent cast," Antony says, swirling his ice in his glass. Gentle clinking. "But—I suppose you've got to get back to Austin, yeah? Someone waiting."

Jensen's smile slips—changes. Antony hadn't been sure, until then. He says, carefully casual, "I heard a rumor," and when Jensen looks up at him again he lifts a shoulder. Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Acting school, eat your heart out.

"Oh, you heard a rumor," Jensen says. He tips his head back, looks Antony up and down. Antony lets himself be looked at. Jensen's… gorgeous, but lots of people in this line of work are gorgeous. It's not his eyes, not his mouth, though both of those would be enough. It was a certain—quality, to him. Matched with the rumors it was irresistible. Jensen Ackles, minor star, no one who should get a second glance from a gossip rag's star meter, from an agent's eye, except. Except.

The rumor. More implication, than anything. Jensen Ackles, and his best friend. Inseparable. Fifteen years, on the same project, and they hung on each other in public and finished each other's sentences and there were no big announcements, no legal exchanges of names, but there was a shared home, in Austin, and an acknowledgment, in the smiles they gave each other. Antony's seen pictures. Only a blind nun wouldn't see it.

That wasn't the rumor. He thinks, standing there with Jensen's eyes on him, that Jensen wouldn't have come up here, otherwise. Still. He's not an asshole. "It's late," he says. An out.

Jensen looks at him. He stands up, and takes his phone out of his pocket. Finds a contact, lets it dial. Antony's skin feels warm. There's hardly a pause, before there's an answer. "Hey," Jensen says, warm. His attention swinging. All the way to Texas, Antony bets. "Yeah, it was fine. Yeah—Kripke trying not to freak out. Just like—yeah. Exactly." A pause, while he listens, and then he nods even though that's silent, and looks Antony in the eyes. "Yeah, he's here." Antony stands up straighter. "Hold on."

Jensen holds out the phone. "He wants to talk to you."

The phone's barely warm, from Jensen's face. He holds it to his ear. "Hi," he says, and on the other end of the line there's a cheerful _hey!_ back, and then in an easy little monologue, Jared Padalecki says:

 _Hey, man. So—look, I'm just laying it out for you. Figure you probably must've heard, from somebody. It gets around, you know? Jensen and me—well, we got a deal. Right? That's what you heard. Well, it's true, kinda. It's up to him, you know. He picks. I just get to veto, yes or no. You know, when Krip called and asked, we'd just binged season one at home and he already told me—shit, he's gonna kill me for telling you this, but might as well—he told me, he said, "that one," and I made fun of him a little 'cos it figures, you know, the tall dude with the great pecs, but hey. Consider yourself lucky, man_.

Jensen watches him, the whole time Jared's talking. He slips off the burgundy jacket, slings it over the couch. The leather sneakers come off. He sips at the rum and coke, licks the taste off his lip. Waits.

_So, anyway. I get to pick this part. But, you know, he likes you, and I guess you're not gonna have too long to work together. So, you got any preference? You wanna fuck him, right?_

Antony's cock throbs, in his trousers. "You don't mind?" Jensen's eyes cut away, and he takes his watch off, drops it into the pocket of his jacket.

_Not as long as you make it good. But maybe you want to wait, on that. Maybe you just want a blowjob, this first time? Or, fuck, I don't know. Tossed salad? You can pick one._

One. God. He thinks, they're going to be on set together, in four months. Toronto, with his apartment there, and its big familiar bed, and how he can spread Jensen out, there. Take his time, with Jared Padalecki's permission. One thing, tonight, that he gets with Jared's permission, because this was the rumor—Jensen was polite, and kind, and the consummate gentleman, and he'd fuck the right kind of man if the man asked, but that man had to get authorization, and it wouldn't go any farther than Jared said.

 _Aw, man, it's tough, right? Spoiled for choice. Here, put me on speaker_ , Jared said, and Antony tilted the phone and did, and out loud in the room Jared said, utterly casual, "Hey, Jen," and Jensen's eyes found the phone, and Jared said, "You're just gonna suck his cock, okay? This time. Make it deep, nasty. I wanna hear your voice all sore when you call me in the morning, 'kay?"

"Sounds good," Jensen says, and takes the phone out of Antony's hand, and turns off the speaker setting and holds it to his ear, briefly. His eyes shutter, and Antony looks at his eyelashes, thick and long as a girl's even though he's in his forties. Random detail, to focus on, when his cock is this ready, but it's what he sees, before Jensen smiles and says, "Bye," soft, and hangs up his phone and tosses it to lie with his jacket, and looks at Antony head-on, no embarrassment, no second-guessing.

"Here?" he says, thumb to the couch. "Or bed?"

Bed. It's—almost unsexy. Almost clinical. He takes off his t-shirt—a Superman graphic tee, a joke for the fans that he sweated through in the July heat—and slips off his boots, and stands at the foot of the bed while Jensen takes care of his belt, unzips his jeans. He's hard enough that he's pressing out the front of them, and when Jensen peels his fly open, his cock bursts out, springing through the split in his boxers. Jensen smiles, looking at it. They're the same height, or nearly—Jensen maybe has an inch on him—but he feels—massive. Like he's bigger than his body. Jensen Ackles, and his eyes and his lips, and his body which is… touchable. Breakable, fuckable. He keeps his clothes on, his DC comics shirt and his jeans and his socks, even, and sinks down to his knees, and pulls at Antony's jeans until they slip down, to his knees, to his ankles. Off. Naked, in the air conditioning, and he feels his nipples pull tight. Jensen looks at his cock, a pleased quirk of his lips, and says, "Sit," and Antony does, immediately, and then when Jensen's hand urges it he lays back, keeping up just on his elbows so he can at least see, and Jensen slides his hands up Antony's thighs, gripping his cock in one sure hand, and gives him a quick pleased smile before he dips down, opens his mouth—wets it—

Ah—ah. Wet, slick. A mouth, and mouths are much the same. Still, that first touch always thrills, and Antony settles his weight on his elbows, spreading his thighs wider. Jensen pulls back, looks at the wet tip where the head's already straining free of its foreskin, and lick his lips to shining, and then—oh—oh, "Christ!" Antony says, because—his back arches—Jensen just sank down, no pausing, burying Antony's cock in his throat in an easy deep gulp, like gag reflexes are something that happen to other people. He draws back in a second, goes back down just as fast, and Antony feels his thighs clench, his body wanting to give it up in a second. Doing what he was told, Antony realizes, dizzily feeling the swallowing tightness there around the head, and he reaches out, gets a hand on Jensen's broad shoulder.

"Give it a second to breathe, christ in heaven," he says, and Jensen pulls up and off with a gulping noise, and already there's a string of wet, between Antony's cockhead and Jensen's lip. Beautiful enough that Antony's balls lurch and he thinks, what an idiot, just—put it back, fuck his throat and be done—but Jensen thumbs the wet away, fastidious almost, before he wraps a hand around the pole of Antony's cock and jerks it, once and then twice, spreading all the wet around.

"You should fuck in," Jensen says. Warm suggestion, as friendly as Jared had been. He licks his lips, then sets the head of Antony's dick against them, painting a little circle. Antony breathes heavy, watching. "Jared wants it that way. Sore. Help me out, man."

"How do you want it?" Antony says. He doesn't know if that's part of it. Maybe one's the same as the other but maybe not.

Jensen tips his head and licks, very softly, just under the head of Antony's cock, where the vein rises and then dips, that little bundle of nerves washed under slick heat. "I want it sore," Jensen says, after a pause during which Antony entirely forgot what he'd asked, and Jensen takes advantage of his daze to arrange him a little—tugging his hips forward so his arse is right at the edge of the mattress, spreading his knees, taking his hand—pulling him, up more—and then pointedly taking that hand and settling it on Jensen's own head. His fingers wind helplessly into the soft golden-brown hair, just long enough to pull. "Now," Jensen says, and braces his hands on the bed either side of Antony's hips, and ducks his head, and slurps his dick back in.

God—that wash of heat, that mouth. Antony flexes for a second, just feeling it. A soft suckle, but then nothing more, and he plants a hand behind himself for leverage and hikes his hips up, like fucking, and Jensen moves with him and just—takes it. Antony does it again, feels the slide out while Jensen's lips hold him sweet, and jolts up, his cockhead slotting along the hard palate and then right into the pit of his throat. A sound, Jensen breathing hard, and his mouth softens further, making room. Antony's face is so hot his cheeks prickle. He shifts his grip in Jensen's hair, tightening, holding him in just the right place. "I won't stop," he says, hot, and watches Jensen's eyes shut, his eyelashes thick and dark against his freckled cheeks, and then he holds Jensen's head down and—ah, fucks, careless, shoving up and in, riding the slick weight of Jensen's tongue, battering his throat, ignoring if his eyes tear up or if he chokes because—this is what he was asked to do, this is what he's been allowed to do. What Jensen wants, because it's what Jared wants, and just the idea of it's setting Antony's skin on fire even as his balls lurch, his hips snapping in easy rhythm, in and in and in and making Jensen make that vile _glork_ sound in the pit of his throat, the spit spilling out of him, wet slopping onto Antony's balls, making everything there slick, sloppy, _so_ nice. He drags his hand out of Jensen's hair down to the back of his neck, sits forward more, and Jensen moves with him easy, keeping his mouth open, making it good. He works his cock against Jensen's tongue, sawing in almost, and at the new angle Jensen drops his jaw, makes his mouth an o, lets Antony just drag all over him, inside. He looks up, after almost thirty seconds of this. His eyes are—

Antony grips Jensen's ears, instead. Tilts his head, gets on his feet. Jensen follows, tips, and when Antony drives in now it's hard, harder than Antony's ever gone, because with normal people, with women or with groupie gay boys or even with call girls, the few times he's been with a call girl, you're nice about it, you ask, you make sure they're okay and you make sure it's good, for both of you, so there's no hard feelings and maybe if you call again, there's more fun to be had. There's no question of that, with Jensen. Jared said to make it sore and so Antony's going to make it sore. If he gets this again, then he's not bothering with pleasing Jensen, not bothering with asking or making it fun—he's got to please Jared, who isn't here but is waiting, in Austin, for a phonecall with Jensen's voice on the other end, and Antony's hammering in now, Jensen's fingers clawing at his hips and his eyes streaming, the sound of it nasty, the feel of it just—perfect—and when Antony comes he flexes deep and holds Jensen's head in place and makes sure it pushes right down into the pit of his throat, his balls unloading straight into that soft tummy, and when he pulls back there's a gush, because of course Jensen couldn't swallow all of it, but he catches the spill over Jensen's chin with his fingers and pushes it back inside, and gets to watch, then, his cock twitching, while Jensen breathes hot around the messy push of his fingers and then closes his lips, sucking soft and sweet, making sure he gets it all.

He practically falls back down to the bed. Jensen's on his knees, still. He licks his lips, thoughtfully, and Antony's cock twitches again. His balls ache. "Okay?" he says.

Jensen gives him a quick, _are you kidding?_ look. He wipes his chin with the back of his hand and stands up. In the butter-soft jeans Antony can see that he's hard, bulging, but Jensen walks away, out through the double doors to the couch, where he picks up his blazer and shrugs it back on.

"Jensen," he says, and Jensen says, not looking at him, "It's going to be good to work with you."

His voice is a rasp, like the middle of a flu. Antony presses his dick down, between his legs. He can't be getting hard again this fast, at his age. Jensen slips his phone into his pocket, shoves his sneakers back onto his feet. He pauses, looking at Antony naked on the end of the bed, and gives him a softer version of the movie-star smile. "See you in Toronto," he whispers, voice wrecked, and then is out the door. Transaction complete.

Antony drops back to the bed, looking at the ceiling. He tries to imagine the phone call, in the morning. What Jared will say. What he might've earned, for his part. He's never been happier that Jeffrey Dean Morgan is a gossip. He wonders what other rumors he's heard might be true.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/629489549815545856/in-support-of-wildfire-relief-scgemini-donated) \-- reblogs help more people see the relief campaign, so it's appreciated if you have a tumblr.
> 
> Would appreciate any thoughts you have.


End file.
